7 days - 7 poems - Day 7

If you're going to cheat, you might as well cheat right at the end.

That's what I've always been raised to believe.

Cheating at the end, when done properly, only happens when doing it guarantees a win. No sense in cheating and then losing.

I still haven't sorted out sleep and after waking then errands it was already the middle of the afternoon. Instead of coming home to write I instead spent a chunk of what afternoon remained talking with LAWYER and one of his lawyer friends on the bench outside Ella's. I tried briefly to write a poem about the experience but quickly gave up. The first line was 2 lawyers sit on a bench and the rest was going to be puns and insinuations about terms like motion, bench, brief, firm, etc.

In fact now that I've revealed all that I'm sure you can all sort out the poem for yourself.

I even tried to incorporate the game of streetcar tag in, but...too groggy. Stupid sleeping patterns.

Last night I was at Bad Dog Theatre for a show and decided walking home (they're on the Danforth) was a good idea. It was. It took about 2 hours with all my detours, but it was a great walk. I found an exposed subway tunnel just east of Castle Frank station that arcs gracefully across one of the Don's offshoot valleys. I'm sure lots of others have noticed it over the years but it was my first time. Fantastic! I hope no one thought my leaning over the bridge, inspecting it, was a sign of darker plans.

I suppose if I had just gone straight to bed after getting home things might have worked out better today. But they didn't okay!!! So instead of a brand new poem, written today, you get the last poem I wrote before the week that was began. That's the thing about poets, even when the rules are self-imposed we just need our freedom and individuality.

So I am breaking the rules of my own...thing.

Are you excited? The following was written as a result of reading a lot of Leonard Cohen's stuff in a short amount of time.

Story (title subject to change)

Growing up not Catholic

is the biggest tragedy of my life

I'm not Jewish either

another of fate's damnable attacks

Lacking the benefits of a Classical education

all I have is a periodic United Church

bereft of pageantry

and razzle dazzle

There were stories there

and they trace back the same, I'm sure

but I forget, if I ever listened.

So now I write poetry and can't find the archetype

the creation myth

or patchwork of wonder

No raven or turtle to guide me

or build upon

No shorthand of history

King David's just some king

so are Henry and George and Louis and

Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuck.

Drab truths of science don't make poems

of universal truth

Their lights shine too self; confident and important

A lab is clean, fluoresced and sharp

and its stories likewise

without

shifting edges to bend and hug

close when cold without meaning.

Hide the world behind incense

chanting drugs or prayer and

find the truth because

it's all you'll remember

The broad strokes

A story on the edge of shadows

behind swirling light, in smoky space.

All I have is pro wrestling

and last I checked

the Pope's not holding the belt.

----

So there. Thanks for reading, and keep reading...I might post my short story Fire Drill on here in the near future. I had submitted it to this but received a nice form letter earlier today explaining that I hadn't made the cut. Probably better that I fail (for the time being), but I still wish I had known about the extension before rushing to submit on New Year's Eve.

Alas, alas it's in the past.

See I'm a poet.